


Reluctance

by indicates



Series: High Tide [1]
Category: Elder Scrolls V: Skyrim
Genre: Companions, Companions Questline, Kodlak knows all, M/M, Pre-Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-12
Updated: 2016-04-12
Packaged: 2018-06-01 18:53:32
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 797
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6532132
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/indicates/pseuds/indicates
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which Vilkas meets the Dragonborn, and is summarily unamused but quietly impressed.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Reluctance

Kodlak’s words ring in his ears, firm but amused, and he has never been so annoyed in his life. 

_He’s more than you think, Vilkas._

The Nord shifts in his armor, annoyance pulling at the corners of his face as he shoves himself up out of his chair with a sigh. He wants to do absolutely nothing less than he wants to take this - this stranger, this newcomer, out to the courtyard and test his arm, and part of him simmers with frustration at this somehow being his responsibility. Still, one does not argue with the Harbinger (though authority he is not) and so, obedient even in his reluctance, Vilkas makes his way through the living quarters, up through the mead hall where catches a schadenfreude grin from Njada, and rolls his eyes. 

With a lack of ceremony fitting only of a man with an intensely focused disinterest, he pushes the doors open to the yard and steps down off the porch toward the kid. 

“Sounds like the old man wants me to take a look at you,” he starts, and he has to bite back the urge to smirk because, Divines, _look_ at this mess. A Bosmer, of all things, here in Whiterun. Short, wiry, thin even for a wood elf with a set of Elven armor that Vilkas isn’t even sure belongs to him, with a battle axe nearly as tall as he is. “That’s a lot of weapon. Aren’t your kind supposed to be archers, _elfling?_ ” 

It comes out as a sneer, but Vilkas pays his tone little mind. 

The elf looks as much unconcerned about the tone as the Nord himself is, quirking him a half-cocked grin behind his helmet and hauling his axe up off his back. The right eye is classic Bosmer black, slitted and trained on his opponent’s face, but the left is a milky white. Perhaps it explains his affinity for oversized melee weapons; perhaps the elf is just strange. Vilkas is unsure, and he dislikes being unsure. 

“I’d argue that _supposed to be_ is a bit pointless in this day and time, wouldn’t you?” He bats his eyelashes in some kind of faux innocence with another of those grins and Vilkas dislikes him even more.

“Fair enough, elf. If you think you handle your axe so well, swing at me. I can handle your blade.” 

“If you insist.” 

The Bosmer is unmistakably playful when he speaks but wholly serious when he lifts his weapon and swings, hard, once and then twice. The blade clatters off Vilkas’ greatsword as he parries it away both times, but a third strike across his chest catches him off guard and when a fourth comes down on his shoulder he stumbles back as it clangs against his armor, barking a laugh somewhere between impressed and embarrassed. 

“Stronger than you look, elfling.” 

The whelp just shrugs at him, head of his axe resting on the cobble as he catches his breath. “I’m not one to take being underestimated lightly. Elfling, _really?_ " 

“You haven’t told me your name,” Vilkas points out, irritated. 

“You didn’t ask,” the elf lobs back. 

“I didn’t think I needed to,” he snaps, then catches himself because he’s not about to stand round arguing with a wood elf over whether or not this was his responsibility in the first place, and he rolls his eyes again. “Regardless, you’ve certainly dulled my blade. And, if you wish to be a member of the Companions,” it pains him to even say it, and the words come out between his teeth like he has to force them, “you’re the newest whelp, and that means it’s your job to do the grunt work.” He passes his sword over to the elf who, to his credit, looks less annoyed than he does boredly nonchalant. “Take this to Eorlund Gray-Mane, at the Skyforge. Have it sharpened, and I expect you’ll carry it out quickly.” 

Delicate hands, even in his gauntlets, pluck the greatsword out of Vilkas’ larger palms and he stows his axe away to mind the sword instead. “I tend not to waste time,” he says, as a reminder, and turns to make his way to the forge as Vilkas climbs the steps up onto the porch. 

“By the way,” the elf pipes up suddenly, and Vilkas slows but doesn’t stop, turning to cast him a look over his shoulder. He says nothing; the stare is enough acknowledgement. 

“If you care, my name’s Danoch.” 

Vilkas ignores him and pushes his way back into Jorrvaskr, feeling oddly naked and vulnerable without his blade; he sinks into a chair near the fire after a brief detour to retrieve a bottle of mead. Njada smirks at him, gleeful in his annoyance. 

He hates it when the old man’s right.

**Author's Note:**

> not beta'd, so i wholly apologize for any issues i might not've caught while proofreading! more to come, farkas shows up in part 2.


End file.
